Head Over Heels
by Kizzia
Summary: John stopped short in front of the glossy black door and took a deep breath. Why the hell have I come? He thought, somewhat frantically. 'He's a rude, abrasive lunatic who falls out of trees whilst "helping the police with their enquiries" and knew practically everything about me five minutes after we met. Plus he makes me feel so stupidly giddy I may as well be sixteen again!


**Rating:** Mature - NC-17 mature. I'm not kidding!  
**Status:** WIP - Chapter 1 of 2  
**Warnings, kinks and contents:** AU first meeting, Johnlock, first kiss, first time, explicit sex, and some fluff too.  
**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't claim, not making any profit.  
**Author's Note:  
**A stand alone fic that just happens to also be a 'what happened next' for Chapter 4 of AtlinMerrick's glorious "The Day They Met" – a fic containing a plethora of AU first meetings for Sherlock and John.

When I left a comment on Atlin's chapter I told her that I was happily imagining what followed. She said she'd like to know too, and suggested I told the story. Since you just don't say no to Atlin, this is the result.

Whilst you can read this without having read Atlin's chapter first I would heartily recommend you do pop over and read it. I'll wait. Seriously. Because it's Atlin, so it's glorious and thus you will love it, plus once you've read it you'll get the references at the start, some of which will hopefully make you laugh.

And yes, again I say, there is sex! Apparently the boys put out on a first date when they haven't met in a hospital. Who knew!

Oh, and I should say that the second chapter is completely written and beta'd (thanks go to Ladyprydian) but because I like to draw things out, it will be posted next week.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

John stopped short just in front of the glossy black door and took a deep breath.

_Why the hell have I come?_ He thought, somewhat frantically. _He's a rude, abrasive lunatic who falls out of trees whilst "helping the police with their enquiries" and knew practically everything about me five minutes after we first met. Plus he makes me feel so stupidly giddy I may as well be sixteen again._

He shook his head slightly.

_And therein lies the problem. I shouldn't get involved in anything that might knock me back off my feet. Because, yeah, I know I still miss the Army but since Mike helped me out and the locum work took off life doesn't seem quite so empty. I see a few mates down the pub from time to time and I'm spending much more time out of the flat than I was. And the flat isn't that bad, anyway. It may be tiny and beige and bland but it's clean, it's cheap and it's handy for work. I can cope, hell I am coping, so chasing a possibility that's likely to end in tears really isn't worth risking ending up back in therapy after all these months._

He ran one hand over his hair then tugged at his collar, worrying his lower lip between his teeth as he did so.

_So why have I let spending an hour exchanging insults with a madman in a garden in the London suburbs make me throw any semblance of behaving sensibly right out the window? I mean seriously, given my track record with relationships, I should be running hard and fast in the opposite direction. Yet here I am, on his doorstep, about to look at a room in his flat that I probably can't afford anyway and wondering if I've still got the moves to ensure the room I see most of is his bedroom. What on earth am I doing?_

His phone beeped in his pocket. A text:

**_Living dangerously. Come up, the door is open – SH_**

John glanced up to see a movement in the first floor window and felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He'd only lent Sherlock his phone this afternoon for three minutes, tops, and yet the man had memorised his number.

He was inside before he could do more than blink, never mind think up any more reasons for turning his back on the only person that had made him feel really alive since Afghanistan. The tantalizing smell of Schezuan chicken that filled the stairway was more than enough to banish any lingering doubts, making his mouth water as he made his way up the stairs.

'I hope you're hungry.'

Sherlock spoke from the middle of the room as John stepped over the threshold and John's eyes went to him immediately.

Yes, still ridiculously tall, still achingly thin, and now sporting a properly developed bruise down the left side of his face that, unfairly, didn't detract from his attractiveness one iota.

'The Chinese I ordered from owe me a few favours and they seem to have somewhat overcompensated. Although I don't anticipate any problems given that you haven't eaten properly today.'

'And that deduction is based on what? That I haven't dropped mayonnaise on my jumper? Or can you tell by my thumb, or perhaps my lack of tie?'

'You looked me up on line.' Sherlock smiled. A lazy, catlike smile that made John's stomach flip in a most pleasant manner

'Yes.'

'And?'

John raised an eyebrow. 'Your marketing skills leave a lot to be desired. If I hadn't already met you I might be tempted to think you'd come over better in person.'

Sherlock mirrored his expression. 'Your balls are still sore, then?'

For a heartbeat they just looked at each other before John dissolved into laughter. Well into giggles, actually, if you're going to be pernickety about it. And then Sherlock was laughing too and John ended up leaning against the wall by the door, arms wrapped round his empty – yes, Sherlock was right – stomach as they hiccupped and wheezed themselves calm again.

'Oh God, I needed that,' John gasped after five minutes, wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes.

'Me too,' Sherlock answered from where he was now collapsed in a low, black leather armchair.

John looked up sharply. Sherlock had sounded, and was now looking, slightly bemused, his eyes gazing downward as if trying to look at his own mouth. John got the impression that Sherlock's instinctive admission was what had startled him, rather than their shared laughter.

_He's as lonely as I am_, John realised. The thought made his stomach hurt in a very different way to the hunger and he pushed it away, sought refuge in the mundane instead.

'Nice place,' he said as he stood straight again and took a proper look round the untidy room. 'Eclectic, yet cosy.'

'Mrs Hudson is an understanding landlady.'

Sherlock stood, but he wasn't looking at the room. No, his gaze was fixed on John, eyes raking over him, making him feel naked despite several layers of clothing. He'd never been looked at like that before by anyone, had never been on the receiving end of that level of scrutiny; which was saying something since he'd been eyeballed by some of the best sergeants at Sandhurst.

_I should find this disconcerting_, he told himself as he watched Sherlock watching him, _but I don't. It …It makes me want him to …_

He didn't finish the thought but it must have been written across his face anyway because Sherlock moved swiftly, covering the space between them in seconds and stopping a mere arms length away.

'You are a remarkable man, John Watson.'

'I … um, thank you?'

Sherlock laughed again, but this time it was rich, low, and full of promise as he took one more step. Right into John's personal space.

John's mouth went dry in anticipation, tongue flicking out to wet his lips involuntarily. The hitch in Sherlock's breath the action produced, along with the widening of his pupils in storm cloud irises, made John repeat it. Although this time he did it slowly and deliberately, holding Sherlock's gaze all the while.

'I don't do this,' Sherlock practically growled, even as he leant closer, one hand steadying himself on the wall and the other moving up to hover millimetres from John's jaw. 'I don't have friends. I don't socialise. I don't let sentiment cloud my judgement nor desire to enter my head. I certainly don't invite people to the flat and then seduce them before they've barely got through the door. Yet here you are. Because I broke all my rules and asked. And you broke yours and came. You came because I asked.'

'I did.' John said, because it seemed like something was required of him.

He could feel his chest rising and falling rapidly; feel the pulse thudding in his throat at their proximity and the visceral need coursing through him to touch Sherlock, to taste him. Most of his brain was perfectly happy with that plan too, screaming at him to just kiss the strange confession right out of Sherlock's mouth, before Sherlock's ears caught up with his tongue and he put a stop to everything before it had properly started.

But another, smaller part, held the impulse in check; the part which had just made the connection between Sherlock's words and the look of sheer disbelief on DI Lestrade's face this afternoon, when Sherlock had said, somewhat abruptly but with a good deal of warmth, "Tonight, John. 7pm. 221B Baker Street", before striding off in a swirl of coattails. At the time he'd thought the DI's reaction was down to the fact he hadn't heard Sherlock deduce that John was fed up with his miserable little bed sit and say he had a room for rent. Now though, he suspected the DI would have been even more surprised if he'd realised Sherlock had basically asked him to be his flatmate.

The thought was pushed aside as Sherlock moved closer still and spoke again, breath ghosting warm over John's face. John's nose, already full of the rather intoxicating scent of Sherlock's cologne, now picked up a faint hint of cigarettes.

'I shouldn't care,' Sherlock rumbled; voice so deep it vibrated through both of them. 'You shouldn't be this interesting. I shouldn't want this with you … Want you ... But I do.' His hand finally made contact, thumb stroking over John's cheekbone and then up to his temple.

'Good,' John breathed back, reaching up and winding his fingers into Sherlock's unruly curls, 'Because I want you, too.'

'Obvious,' Sherlock retorted. Then he pressed his lips to John's.

_He kisses the way he looks at me_, John thought a little hazily, five minutes later, _so intensely it almost burns_.

The door remained wide open beside them, but frankly he couldn't give a flying fuck that they could be interrupted at any moment. Because Sherlock was flush against him, warm and heavy, pinning him to the wall. And his tongue was teasing and stroking and circling in John's mouth in such a way that …. Well, if you'd asked John before now whether he was a good kisser, he'd have winked and said, "Bloody good, actually". Compared to Sherlock, however, he was only ever going to be "adequate".

Between the instant arousal Sherlock's proficiency had generated and the way his nerve endings were sparking at each point they were pressed together, John was beginning to wonder if he'd ever remember how to breathe properly again. Not that he cared if he couldn't, mind and body both being entirely on board the "Sherlock continuing to kiss him like this forever" train. To be honest it was more of a "Sherlock keeping doing whatever he wants as long as he doesn't stop" train and if that train had, at any point, any brakes whatsoever, they were now entirely burnt out.

That should have surprised John, since it had been an awfully long time since he'd been taken apart by nothing more than a kiss, never mind not being the once in control. But he wasn't surprised at all. Possibly because having Sherlock in his arms felt right on a molecular level he could neither explain nor properly comprehend, but mostly because he didn't have any spare thoughts left to be surprised with.

All the brain cells that hadn't gone south with the majority of his blood, or become entirely focused on Sherlock's mouth and those fucking delicious lips, were completely take up with the way Sherlock's hands were roaming over his arms, shoulders and chest, and the fact that Sherlock's leg had just slid between John's thighs. And then there was the way Sherlock was moaning so wantonly that porn directors would have paid to record him …

_Or am I the one moaning? Or are we both at it?_ _Not that it matters. Not as long as Sherlock keeps kissing me, keeps _…

The moment was shattered by an inordinately loud rumble from John's stomach and he winced, as much from embarrassment as from the pain of the cramping hollowness.

'I was right then.' Sherlock disengaged but didn't pull away, resting his forehead against John's. The corners of his mouth had turned down into an odd approximation of a smile and his smugness at being correct was almost lost in the breathy quality of his voice. 'You really haven't eaten anything today.'

John made a sort of affirmative noise whilst heaving in much needed gasps of air and trying to remember how to use his mouth for talking.

'Yeah,' he managed eventually. 'Locum work isn't conducive to regular meals.'

'Conducive to us not getting caught in flagrante by Mrs Hudson, though.' Sherlock pulled away properly and stepped back just as John heard the sound of light footsteps on the stairs.

'Don't think it'll make much difference,' he muttered, taking in Sherlock's swollen lips, the spots of colour high on his cheekbones and the absolute birds nest John had made of his hair. 'Not if I look half as well kissed as you do.'

Sherlock gave an inelegant snort of laughter as he ineffectually ran his palms down his rumpled shirt. 'Three … two … one …' he murmured.

'Sherlock, dear, are you … Oh! I didn't know you had company.'

John turned to greet the owner of the soft voice only to find himself on the receiving end of a gentle smile topped by a kindly, but incredibly knowing, gaze.

'John … John Watson.' He stuck out his hand. 'Pleased to meet you.'

'_Doctor_ John Watson,' Sherlock corrected. 'The same doctor I mentioned might be interested in the second bedroom and whom is to be thanked for the fact my face doesn't look worse.'

'You mean because I refrained from punching you the minute you opened your mouth and started being obnoxious, so only one side of your face is bruised?'

'_Doctor_ _Watson_,' she said in a scandalized tone, although her eyes glittered with suppressed amusement. 'How can you talk about punching my tenant? Do they not make you take the Hippocratic Oath anymore?'

John was once again beaten to a response by Sherlock.

'No, Mrs Hudson, medical professionals these days are not required to spout useless, unenforceable promises before they are set loose on unsuspecting patients. However I suspect John's time in the army is the cause of his propensity for physicality, rather than any lack of doctorly spirit.'

'I think he likes you,' Mrs Hudson patted John's hand before finally releasing it. 'He only gets this verbose about living people when he's flustered.'

She looked up at a gaping Sherlock and fixed him with a stern gaze.

'I'm going to my sister's for the weekend so you'll be on your own. Please try not to blow anything up whilst I'm gone and do remember that you need to eat more than once in a blue moon. It was lovely to meet you, John dear. The spare room is up the stairs. Although …' she looked between them with an almost impish expression on her face. 'Somehow, I don't think you'll be needing it.'

John was saved from trying to find a sensible response by his stomach protesting its ill-treatment even more loudly than before.

'Oh _Sherlock_!' She chided, chivvying John towards the glass door to his left and into an equally untidy kitchen. 'The poor man's hungry and you're keeping him in the doorway like an unwanted salesman. Where are your manners?'

She didn't wait for an answer, pointing John towards a relatively clear place at the table and bustling over to a cupboard. 'At least I did the washing up last night so you've got some clean plates. Now do you want tea or …'

'We're fine, Mrs Hudson.' Sherlock took the plates out of her hands and gave her a kiss on the cheek with one swift movement. 'As you're so fond of telling me, you're not my housekeeper and, as two grown men, I'm sure we'll manage to feed ourselves Chinese takeaway.'

'Oh you,' Mrs Hudson said, patting the unbruised side of his face affectionately. 'I'll leave you to your wooing then. Goodbye Dr Watson.'

And she was gone, leaving Sherlock spluttering like a wet cat and John shaking so hard with laughter he almost couldn't get his coat off.

'What a lovely lady,' John said as soon as he had the breath to speak again. 'I really like her.'

'Hmmph!' was Sherlock's only response as he shoved the plates back in the cupboard and then plonked a bowl in front of John, dropped a pair of chopsticks by his left hand and then deftly began laying out foil containers. A pointed look was enough to tell John to start helping himself.

'You weren't kidding about the volume, were you,' John said, grabbing one of the egg fried rice portions and using the chopsticks to push some into his bowl. 'And I'm not even going to ask how you know what my favourites are.'

'It _was_ the lack of tie,' Sherlock deadpanned as he slid into the seat opposite John and picked up his chopsticks. At which point John almost dropped his own, because Sherlock using chopsticks was quite a sight.

John wasn't sure if it was the way he twirled them before settling them between forefinger and thumb or the swift stabs and clicks as he picked out the choicest items from the spread but there was something about watching those fingers move so smoothly and intricately that sent heat pooling in John's gut.

'My work involves fingertip searches and a lot of delicate experimentation,' Sherlock said, reaching across with his free hand and, with a gentleness that belied his burning gaze, pushing John's jaw closed. 'Manual dexterity and precision are very important to me.'

'Right, good … that's good,' John could feel his face flushing and, despite what they'd been doing not fifteen minutes before, he felt unaccountably embarrassed about what he was now imagining Sherlock using those dexterous digits to do.

His stomach, however, would not be denied any longer and so they spent the next ten minutes in companionable silence as John ate his way steadily through his helping and Sherlock made reasonable inroads into his own. By the time John had helped himself to seconds and his stomach was comfortably filled he felt calm enough to mentally congratulate himself on not acting like a horny fifteen year old on a first date and to look up at Sherlock.

Which was something of a mistake. Because Sherlock smiled at him, the slow and lazy smile of a predator that has his prey exactly where he wants it. Effortless he reached out and picked up the piece of chicken on the top of John's bowl; fluidly transferring it to his mouth and sucking it from the chopsticks in a manner that hollowed his cheeks and widened his eyes.

John's chopsticks clattered onto the table as he forgot how to swallow, and once again lost the ability to breathe.

'Problem, John?' Sherlock's voice was a silken purr that really shouldn't have sounded as good as it did.

'No, I …'

'You're flushed.' Sherlock's eyes twitched into a smile as he ran his tongue over his lips. Then he leant forward, the movement accentuating the tightness of his shirt and the muscles beneath. 'Are you hot, John?'

'Umm … yes … bit warm … thanks.' John fought against the urge to close his eyes in mortification at how flustered Sherlock was making him with nothing more than his eyes, his mouth and some tricks that John had used himself on occasion. 'I just … uh … Soy sauce?'

'Fridge,' Sherlock said, gesturing vaguely at the appliance next to John, apparently entirely unperturbed by John's random request, his eyes remaining totally focused on John's face. 'Top Shelf.'

John, grateful that he was going to get to put his face somewhere cool and out of Sherlock's sight for a few seconds, was already on his feet and pulling the door open when Sherlock made a very strange noise in the back of his throat.

'John, don't. There's …'

Sherlock's strangled words tailed off as John stared blankly into the fridge.

'I'm not dreaming, am I?' He blinked, hard, a couple of times, just in case.

'No.' The purr had gone from Sherlock's voice, leaving it flat and hard. When John stole a look from the corner of his eye, he could see the smouldering gaze and the seductive posture had also left. Sherlock's face had completely closed off and his shoulders were tense. It reminded John of the way Private Heath – cocky little bugger that he'd been - had looked when he was bracing himself for a balling out he didn't think he deserved. It wasn't a good look on Sherlock but, given everything he'd seen of the man so far, he could well believe it was one he wore often. _But not how I want you to look right now, _John thought as he tamped down on his initial surprise and tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

'Well, you did say you experiment,' John said, in what he hoped was a jovial tone, whilst narrowing his eyes speculatively at the metal tray on the middle shelf. 'So if I had to guess I'd say this is something to do with fingernail "growth" after death, since these fingers look as if they belong to different people and were cut off at various stages of rigor and decomp. Or …' He peered round the fridge door and grinned at Sherlock, cocking one eyebrow as he did so. '… do you have an entirely out of control finger fetish you really should have warned me about?'

John didn't take much notice of Sherlock's lack of response to his attempt at a joke, too busy chuckling as he closed the fridge and then turned properly toward Sherlock. 'It's _just_ like being back at Uni. Are you sure you're not a frustrated medical student? Because …' He stopped abruptly when he saw Sherlock's face.

'Sherlock?'

The complete blankness in both expression and gaze remained for a second, but then Sherlock's eyes flickered and he tilted his head to one side, forehead wrinkling as he pressed his hands together and drew them up until the tips of his middle fingers were resting on his bottom lip. John didn't flinch under the scrutiny, just stared placidly back, the smile still on his face and his arms loose at his sides.

'You're genuinely amused by this.' Sherlock said, finally. 'I thought you were going to try and be _nice_ about it.' The word "nice" was said in a tone most people reserved for describing politicians, or announcing they'd stepped in dog shit. 'Try and pretend you weren't shocked. Except you really aren't … You genuinely find this funny. You made a _joke_.'

'Yes. Well it is. Funny I mean. And it's certainly not the worst …'

John didn't get any further as Sherlock had moved swiftly over to him and was crowding him up against the wall.

'Finding severed fingers in the fridge makes you laugh,' he murmured breathily, for all the world as if John's macabre sense of humour was the most arousing thing he'd ever encountered.

John swallowed, hard. Sherlock's eyes were incandescent, his pupils completely blown. He was running his hands over John's arms and torso in a manner that made John's knees very unsteady and his face was almost close enough to kiss. John parted his lips and pushed up into the contact.

'I want you _now_.' Sherlock spoke into the kiss, fingers already working on John's shirt buttons. 'Bedroom?'

'Oh God, yes!'


End file.
